Better Late Than Never
by Mcbenzy
Summary: Assumpta's uni friends come to town a few weeks later than anticipated.
1. Chapter 1

Author's note: I've been inspired by a recent spate in lovely Ballyk fics, along with having just received the DVDs of series 1-3, to put something out there. This is set after the Christmas episode, the idea being that Assumpta's uni friends would have to show up some time and help our urst-filled couple along a little bit.

Disclaimer: I wish they had been mine... I'm just playing with them for a bit, then returning them to their rightful owners.

* * *

They'd bailed on Christmas, then again for New Year's, so when her friends rang to say they were coming down that weekend, Assumpta was hesitant about preparing anything significant. She made sure there was room for them if they did follow through on their promise – not that there were any problems there; she'd have needed bookings for that – and that she had people to work the bar. To the regulars, it would look like she was just wanting a break if they didn't turn up. Indeed, she was almost looking forward to some time off when the phone rang Saturday afternoon.

"Hello. Fitzgerald's."

" 'Supmta, is that you?"

"Erin?"

"Yeah. Look, we're on our way, only Jack has gone and got a flat tyre." Assumpta could hear protesting mixed with the sounds of a garage over the line. "We're going to be a bit later than we expected. I hope that's OK."

"That's fine. Take your time. I'll have everything ready for when you get here."

She must've done a good job of covering her surprise as Erin began to babble on some piece of gossip regarding a mutual acquaintance from university. Assumpta didn't hear a word of it, she realised that her blasé attitude had left her with an awful lot to get done before they arrived, and she was trying to work out how she'd manage it.

* * *

He was about to leave the confessional when he heard the door open and someone kneel then cross themself. He shouldn't have been irritated by the latecomer who'd delayed his trip to the pub by who-knew how long, but he was and chastised himself. Still, it didn't stop him contemplating how quickly he could dispense absolution without appearing flippant.

"Bless me Father, for you have sinned"

"Wha... Assumpta?"

"You're a hard man to pin down. I've been looking for you all over this past half hour. You're harder to find than a leprechaun."

Peter smiled despite himself. Trust her to ambush him in the confessional.

"I'm trying out new times for confession to appeal to those who can't usually make it. Is there something you'd like to confess?"

The irony of having Assumpta Fitzgerald sitting on the other side of the confessional was not lost on either of them.

"Actually, I was hoping you'd enlighten me as to why you have swindled a poor publican and deceived the community."

Her tone was completely serious. He'd expected some sort of joke, but he was at a loss as to its punchline.

"Assumpta, if this is some sort of joke..."

"It's no joke _Father_. Now I could be mistaken, but I seem to recall that I and the local hospital were promised a grand total of 4 hours of your labour. Yet those _**4**_ hours have never been fully accounted for."

Peter remembered exactly what she was on about, and exactly why he'd forgotten. It was all tied up with several days worth of memories he'd purposefully suppressed: being bought at the auction, working behind her bar, working with her on the play. Oh, that play! Suddenly the more tantalising memories came flooding back: her hands on his face, the softness of her skin, her breath mingling with his, the dreams that followed. These were not thoughts to be having in the confessional, at least not on the side in which he currently sat.

He didn't realise he'd been silent for an unusual period until she spoke.

"Peter? Everything OK?"

"I, er, yeah, sorry. I seem to remember..."

"I believe you still owe me 2 hours. Bring your apron."

By the time he composed himself properly, she was gone, along with any chance of a relaxing evening on his favourite bar stool.


	2. Chapter 2

I'm so glad to be part of a what seems to be a Ballyk fanfic revival! I hope that the series being shown on TV here in Aussie-land brings more people & writers to the fold.

Thanks for all the reviews so far, it reminds me I'm not just writing this for myself.

Disclaimer: **so** not mine. If they had been, the first 3 series would've been longer and the only character to be electrocuted would've been one of Eamon's wooden sheep.

* * *

Padrig and Brendan were the only ones in the bar when Peter arrived not 15 minutes later, donning civvies and carrying an apron.

"Evenin' Padrig. Evenin' Brendan. Either of you seen Assumpta around?"

"Peter, please tell me you're here to calm that woman down!" Brendan remarked.

"Is something the matter?" All manner of reasons as to why she'd asked him there started to form in Peter's mind.

"Nothing SERVING CUSTOMERS wouldn't cure." Padrig said loud enough to be heard clearly in the kitchen.

"She's been tearing round the place, giving us more grief than usual. And not so much as a refill to cushion the blow." Brendan grumbled, downing the last of his Guinness.

"Say, if you're here to help out," Padrig started, taking a good look at Peter, "you can start by quenching the thirst of two loyal parishioners."

"He'll do no such thing." Assupmta cut in, bustling into the bar and studiously ignoring all but Peter. "Niamh was supposed to be working this afternoon, but Kieran's not well and Ambrose won't be home for another hour. I'm going to need your help in the kitchen. I see you've come prepared." she nodded towards the apron.

"Ah, yeah. Well you did say..." he trailed off, not knowing how much he should say in front of the others. "I'm not sure how much help I'll be to you. Washing up is about as far as my culinary skills extend."

"I'm sure you're just being modest. I'll be back there in a minute if you want to get started."

Peter could see that Assumpta was frazzled, and took the hint. He could hear Brendan begin his attack as he left the room.

"Did ya hear that Padrig? Some courtesy, and to the clergy no less. While the two people who she should be using some of that pleasant tone on, sit and..."

He was glad he didn't have to witness the rest of the exchange which he was sure would involve threats and possibly a barring. Looking around, he noticed that laid out on the kitchen table was an array of vegetables, meat and other ingredients. He was no cook, but even Peter could tell that the collection in front of him would create something fancier than your standard meal. One of the scenarios that he'd dismissed just before suddenly seemed more plausible.

Surely she wouldn't ask him to help her get ready for a date.

Assumpta stepped through to the kitchen and shut the door on a protesting Brendan and Padrig. She leaned against it for a moment, composing her thoughts. It was clear that whatever was going on had her distracted.

"Er, Assumpta? Are you OK?"

"Grand." came the automatic reply, as she started to move about the room getting pots, pans and utensils out, not once looking at Peter.

Date. Definitely a date. A sinking sensation that was becoming all too familiar these days, settled in his stomach.

"Look. I know you're hard pressed for time, but I'm hardly the best choice to help prepare for your, ah, special evening."

"As long as you can follow a set of instructions, you'll be fine. They're not a picky bunch."

"And who might _they_ be?" He tried his best to sound indifferent. It was a completely normal and reasonable question to ask, and much easier since that sinking sensation had disappeared.

"Just some friends from uni."

"The ones who were supposed to come at Christmas?"

"Yeah. The 'old gang'."

Leo. She didn't need to say his name, the sudden pang in his gut told him. No wonder she was distracted. Fortunately he had time to compose himself while she rummaged in a cupboard.

"Right, here it is," she said, putting a piece of paper down on the table, "the Fitzgerald secret family recipe. Guard it with your life."

Peter picked up the sheet. The paper was yellowing and it was covered in spatter marks, some of which obscured parts of the instructions. Reading over it, he realised that it was written in the shorthand of someone who'd made the dish hundreds of times; hardly the type of recipe a neophyte chef would be able to follow.

"Guard it with my life? What for? It doesn't make any sense!"

"What are you talking about?" she snatched it from his hand to check it. "It's all here."

"It's a load of gibberish."

The look she gave him was one he was sure Brendan had received not long ago.

"You're telling me you can decipher the words of God from texts that have been through multiple translations and reinterpretations over thousands of years, but you can't work out a simple recipe written in English?"

She was right. He was grasping at any straw he could to get out of helping her prepare for an evening with Leo. It was uncharitable. She was his friend, at least he hoped she was, and he was being an arse.

"Humour me?" he conceded.

"Boil those, brown that, fry them, then add each remaining item at 5 minute intervals. I'll be down before you get to the part where you have to put it all together. I'll be able to help you then."

The fight in her had dissolved as she listed what he had to do, and by the end she just seemed tired.

"Sorry. I haven't done this in a while. Running a pub is one thing, entertaining friends is another. I guess I'm just a bit nervous."

"Well I would be too with me at the helm." he joked, trying to lighten the mood. "You'll be fine. It's just like riding a bicycle."

"I thought that was sex."

"If it is, then you're doing it wrong."

Assumpta had hoped that by unsettling Peter with a reference to sex, she'd feel better about her own nerves. Peter had hoped a little bit of innuendo would get her mind off what was really bothering her. It succeeded, to an extent. Peter felt uneasy about the oblique reference to what he was sure would happen between the publican and the reporter that very night, and Assumpta was distracted by the thought that Peter's knowledge of _that_ was more than just theoretical. She suddenly had a pressing need for a cool shower.

Peter knew he needed to rescue the moment before they sank into an uncomfortable silence. He picked up the recipe again.

"The Dead Sea Scrolls are easier to read than this."

"Oh shut it and get to work." Assumpta said, making her way out of the room. "I'll be down in a little while."

"Contain a nice easy unleavened bread recipe too." he called out to her retreating form.


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you for all the reviews so far! I love hearing from you wonderful readers :) I thought I had the rest of this story planned out, then the characters highjacked it and decided to make it longer than expected.

Disclaimer: Not mine, not mine, not mine...

* * *

Peter was quite pleased with himself. If asked, he would go so far as to say he was well chuffed with the results so far. He'd managed to get to a point – and all on his own – where the kitchen smelled like real food, and not got a spot on his apron. He was in the middle of washing some of the dishes when he heard cheers from the bar as Niamh finally arrived.

"Assumpta, why didn't you tell me you were making... Oh, Father! What are you doing here?"

"Just lending a hand. Assumpta had a few things to do this afternoon, so I offered to lighten the load."

Offered. Cajoled into. Different verbs, same result. Peter reasoned it wasn't a lie, just good use of his vocabulary.

"And this is what she got you to do?"

There was something in the way that Niamh asked that made Peter wary. It had an edge of Quigley to it.

"Yep. Probably thought I could do the least damage in here."

"Did she leave you any instructions?" Niamh said, scanning the room with a practiced look of innocence plastered on her face. "I can take over if you want. No offence Father, but I've been witness to what you do to toast."

'_Guard it with your life'._

"That's alright Niamh. I'm just keeping an eye on it while Assumpta does a few things upstairs." He put a pot in the drainer and started cleaning the benches, edging his way round to where the recipe sat. He was able to shove it in his apron pocket without her noticing.

"Well," Niamh harrumphed, "I guess I should get out there and placate the rowdy masses."

Peter waited till he could hear the sounds of Niamh serving in the bar before getting the recipe out again. What had started out as nothing more than a nuisance now represented something far more important. For whatever reason, Assumpta trusted him more than her best friend. He was mulling over that thought when Assumpta came in, or as Peter would later describe it, floated in wearing a dress that took his breath away.

It was simple and green, and it showed off her legs. He'd never seen her wear anything like it. He was so used to seeing her in jeans or long skirts that the part of his brain that lead him down treacherous paths had never bothered to try and shorten her hemlines. But now, in the sleepless hours of the night, he knew that every re-imagined scene from their past would be played out with her in that dress.

Peter knew he was in danger of being caught gawping. He also knew he couldn't tell her how beautiful she looked if he was caught, at least not without betraying himself. Fortunately, a few unaffected synapses were still firing and were able to rouse him from his stupor.

"When you said 'guard it with your life', I didn't think you were serious. I had to compromise myself over this!"

"Niamh came in did she? She's been after this for years. I knew I could trust you to keep my secrets safe."

"I barely fumbled my way through it, so I could hardly tell her anything if she did torture me for information, which, by the way, she looked capable of doing. What is this anyway?"

"The one thing my father knew how to cook, and the one thing he taught me that was useful."

It was rare for Assumpta to talk about her family, and when she did, it was even more uncommon for the story to involve her father. Peter didn't know what to say, so stayed silent in the hope that it would encourage her to continue. She did.

"We used to have it whenever the pub had turned a profit, or we had people over. Niamh's been hounding me for years to give it to her, and I probably will one day, just not yet. But enough yabbering. Let's get this finished!"

* * *

It'd hardly taken any time with Assumpta telling him what to do. He put the dish in the oven, closed the door and looked expectantly at her.

"Now what?"

"We wait"

"Is there anything else you'd like me to do?"

There wasn't anything else to be done, but he hoped that she'd find something, anything so he could stay around. The thought of going back to his quiet, empty cottage left him feeling cold. Nor was there any appeal in having a drink with his friends in the bar. Assumpta didn't want him to leave either. She'd enjoyed knowing that he was busy in her kitchen while she was getting ready, and that he'd be there when she came down. Not that she'd been thinking of Peter every moment while she was getting ready, and most definitely not when she'd chosen her dress.

"I think I still own you for another half hour or so, so you can sit and have a drink with me. I'm not one for drinking on my own."

Drinking with Assumpta. Drinking alone with Assumpta. Drinking alone with Assumpta looking amazing and the chance Leo could walk in at any moment. Alarm bells were ringing in his head.

"I reckon I could be persuaded. Just as long as it's not the same stuff as the sacramental wine. I don't know where Father Mac gets it, but I'm sure it's not Vatican approved."

"Oh, and alter wine snob are we?" she joked, pouring them both a glass and taking a long swig from hers.

"Let's just say that if Jesus had turned water into _that_, he wouldn't have lived to perform another miracle."

She snorted, only just managing to stop herself from spraying wine all over him. Drinking with Peter was dangerous. She remembered the last time they were alone drinking together, and how quickly Peter had abandoned her. And how evasive he'd been. She had an idea that would keep him there and get him to talk.

"Game of cards?" she suggested.

"Sure, though I warn you, I'm a regular card sharp when it comes to snap."

"Care to make it interesting then?"

"You can hardly bet on snap Assumpta."

"Who said anything about betting? I was thinking when we win a hand, the winner gets to ask the other person a question, any question."

Peter thought about it for a moment, thought about all the reasons why he should refuse, get up and go home.

"Sounds good to me. Prepare to be grilled Fitzgerald."

Assumpta went to a drawer and pulled out a deck of cards. She shuffled them, divvied them up and they began. True to his word, Peter won all the hands to start. He kept the questions fairly tame: favourite colour, favourite book, favourite film, red or white wine. Assumpta was getting frustrated, and low on cards. She glared at him as she put each of her remaining cards down, which was when she noticed that he was watching her cards intently.

"Cheater!"

"What?!"

"You can see what my card is before I put it down properly. Eyes off my cards church boy."

The truth was that he didn't know where else to look. He stared at his hands instead, the result of which was that Assumpta won the next few sets. As Peter had, she kept to the same tame questions at first, then decided to push a little.

"First crush?"

"Jenny Agutter."

Assumpta chuckled, "I meant in real life Peter."

"Oh. Um, probably Susan Giles."

Cards went down. Assumpta won again.

"First girlfriend?"

"Susan Giles." Peter grinned, "And if your next question is 'first kiss', let me save you the time. Susan Giles."

"Such devotion to one woman. I'm impressed."

Peter knew that if she continued to win, she'd start asking harder questions, so he returned his full concentration to the game. It began to even out.

_Snap!_

"First crush?" he asked.

"Kevin O'Leary."

_Snap!_

"First kiss?"

"Johnny"

"Just Johnny?"

"Don't remember his last name. Don't think I even knew it, mind. And in case you're wondering, he wasn't my first boyfriend."

"Who was?"

"You'll have to win another hand for that."

They started putting their cards down again, only this time no pairs came up quickly, and the tension began to rise. The pairs and questions had, till now, come in fairly rapid succession, so as the pile grew, so too did the importance of the next question.

_Snap!_

Their hands came down. Peter's covered the cards. Assumpta's rested on top of his. They looked at each other but neither pulled back.

"Was your first time with your first boyfriend?"

Peter had had no intention of asking anything so prying, until her hand landed on his and all the sensible parts of his brain had shut down.

"Well, that depends on what you classify as a boyfriend." she avoided.

Peter raised his eyebrows. Had she asked the same thing she wouldn't have backed down, so he wouldn't either.

"No. My first boyfriend was Terry Smith when I was 14. My first time wasn't until university, when I was 20."

"20?"

"Surpised?"

"No, it's just..."

"What? You though I'd've done it well before then? How old were you?"

"Fift..." he caught himself, but not in time.

Assumpta's eyes nearly popped out of her head. Peter pulled his hand back and started fidgeting with the cards. She'd slipped it in thinking he'd never answer. If Niamh or anyone else had chosen then to walk into the kitchen, they would've been hard pressed to describe their complexions as anything other than beet-red. Naturally Assumpta's friends chose that moment to arrive.

They could be heard in the bar as they walked in. It sounded to Peter like a small football crowd had arrived, but when they entered the kitchen, there were only three of them, and the only male among them most certainly didn't have a degree in journalism.


	4. Chapter 4

Thanks again to all my lovely readers who have posted reviews. They really make my day. And if you haven't posted a review, thanks for reading!

Oh, and for those not familiar with the pronunciation of Irish names, Roisin is pronounced "Row-sheen"

Disclaimer: would that they were mine, alas, they were not.

* * *

A rapid succession of greetings, hugs and compliments followed the three newcomers into the room. Peter was glad for the diversion. He sat back and watched as old friends reunited; updates were shared, interspersed with laughter and in-jokes. It was hard for Peter to understand everything that was being said; the four of them had the shared language of people who'd spent all their time together, but he got the gist: other absent friends had got married, divorced, pregnant, new jobs. His observer status was maintained until the short, dark haired woman who he had worked out to be Roisin said something to Assumpta, and introductions were made.

"Sorry, I forget you don't already know everyone." Assumpta apologised to her friends. "Peter, this is the 'old gang'; Erin, Roisin, and Jack. Erin, Roisin, Jack, this is…"

"Peter Clifford. Pleased to meet you."

"An Englishman Assumpta?" the short, sandy haired Jack teased, shaking Peter's hand. "My how times have changed. Are you so hard up for good help out here that you'll hire his kind?"

"He doesn't work here Jack, he's a friend who's been helping me out."

"A friend? Even worse!"

"Ignore him," said Erin, stepping forward, eyeing Peter appreciatively. "He left his manners and charm at the garage. So, what brings you to this part of the world Peter?"

"Work." He could see that Erin was showing far more interest in him than he was comfortable with. She was tall, fair and had the air of a woman who got what, and whom she wanted. "I work for a paint company. They sent me here to analyse all 40 shades of green."

"Really?"

Assumpta smirked, caught Peter's eye and shook her head. Roisin and Jack chuckled at their gullible friend.

"Oh Erin, I've missed you." Assumpta said. "Peter isn't a paint man, he's…"

"A community and social worker." he interjected. Again, his conscience reasoned it wasn't a lie.

"Is there much call for that kind of thing here?" Roisin asked.

"There's enough to keep me busy. In small towns, people's problems tend to have a large impact."

"Very true. And no doubt the pub is the best place to get to the heart of it all."

There was something in the way that Roisin pinned him with her stare that told Peter that she already had his number. Assumpta saw this too and to save Peter the grilling she felt her friends were about to embark upon, offered to show them around. They gathered their things, and followed Assumpta out of the kitchen.

"So that's why you weren't too disappointed when we didn't make it." he heard Roisin say as they started for the stairs. He was glad he couldn't hear the reply as the oven timer drowned the response.

When Assumpta returned a short while later, Peter was smiling, the casserole dish on the table in front of him.

"And I present to you, one miracle!" Peter said with a flourish, as he took the lid off.

"I'd hardly call it a miracle."

"It's not burnt and it smells like food. One day you'll discover that when I'm involved in cooking, that constitutes a miracle."

"St Peter, patron saint of pyrex now are we?" she quipped as she went about the kitchen putting cutlery and condiments on a tray to take upstairs. When she was done, she noticed that Peter had taken off his apron and was folding it, ready to go.

"Do you have plans tonight?" she asked casually.

"No."

"Then stay. Unless you're worried about spending an evening amongst us heathens."

He laughed, but didn't answer. He wanted to stay; Assumpta was in good cheer, and her friends were lively and amiable. It would be fun. It would be a glimpse into another world. Assumpta could see the conflict in his eyes. She'd learnt to spot when Peter the man and Peter the priest were battling for control. She wanted him to stay, so she grabbed an extra plate and made the decision for him.

"Well, I can't very well have you leaving without feeding you. Bring that one up would ya?" she nodded at the casserole dish, as she picked up the tray with the plates and cutlery and exited the kitchen.

* * *

The private rooms upstairs were small, Peter realised upon entering the lounge. He'd never been upstairs, and found that the warmth of the pub below carried on into the private quarters. The lounge was just able to accommodation a sofa and two armchairs. Roisin and Erin had commandeered the sofa, Jack one of the armchairs. The decision as to who got the remaining chair was made when Peter sat on the floor in front of it, his back against one of the arms. Assumpta wished she had a camera to capture the image of Peter's tall frame contorted into such a small space. She dished up food for everyone then made herself comfortable, kicking off her shoes and folding her legs up onto the chair.

She was happy that her friends were there, and even more pleased that Peter looked like he was enjoying himself too. He was chatting away between mouthfuls, listening to stories of their days at uni – Assumpta, Erin and Roisin had to correct Jack on some of his more outlandish exaggerations.

"So is this the whole gang?" Peter asked at one point.

He was curious to know why Leo wasn't there. The stories he'd heard so far had occasionally involved the reporter, but not as much as he'd expected.

"Pretty much." Roisin replied. "The four of us all came from fairly small towns, so we seemed to gravitate towards each other from the beginning. We picked others up along the way, of course, but none were as long lasting as us four original Musketeers."

"Where are you all from?"

Peter's question lead to a string of new conversation.

Assumpta realised that for the first time in a very long time, she felt content.

* * *

With the food consumed along with plenty of wine, conversation was flowing freely. The buzz of alcohol in everyone's systems rendered the group oblivious to the slow withdrawal of two participants. From her position, Assumpta was able to observe Peter closely for the first time in many months. She'd stopped scrutinising him not long after he'd arrived, when she'd realised that all the imperfections that would normally allow her to distance herself from someone, had had the reverse effect. Now, sitting so close to him and free from his equally penetrating gaze, she began to contemplate all the ways in which she had begun to find him endearing. It didn't take long before her mind took a sharp turn and replaced endearing with attractive. If she was going to let herself wander down that path, she was going to need more wine.

As though he'd read her mind, he leant forward, refilled their glasses, and settled back against the arm of the chair, drinks in hand. He passed a drink backwards to her awkwardly over his shoulder.

"Able to read people's thoughts, are you?" she asked, plucking the glass from his hand.

"Only yours" he chuckled, absentmindedly letting his now free arm stretch out and come to rest along her leg.

The contact caused Assumpta to hold her breath. What on earth did he think he was doing? Couldn't he tell how much he was affecting her?

"What are you thinking about?" she asked instead.

'_How happy you seem. How much I want to crawl into that chair with you. How every moment of tonight will be replayed over and over in my dreams. You in that dress. You out of that dress.'_

"Just how this is the last thing I expected to be doing tonight."

"C'mon, you spend most evenings sitting around with friends, chatting over a drink."

"Not quite the same though it is?" He waited for a moment before continuing. "I'll never be able to get _this_ down there."

"What do you mean, _this_?" She very well knew what he meant. She knew how it felt to be free of prying eyes, of friends that no matter how well meaning, would still pass judgement on your words and actions, especially if they had any impact on the careful equilibrium of the town.

"The easy conversation of equals. There always comes a point where even those who profess to be my friends hold back. No one is ever 100% honest with me unless there's a curtain and a blessing between us. Well, no one 'cept you."

"Yeah, well, I'm sure there are times when I probably shouldn't be quite so brutal."

She knew they needed a change of topic. She stared at the back of his head, willing him to do so. She saw the tag of his shirt was sticking out. That's when she noticed the hair around the nape of his neck had grown longer and was beginning to curl. It looked so soft. She wanted to run her fingers through it, but settled for tucking the tag in instead. It was something friends would do for each other, something completely innocent she reasoned. It had nothing to do with her desire to touch him.

"You'll be needing a haircut soon. Letting yourself go now you're truly settled in?"

He was going to make some quip about the evil influences of folk mass, but he didn't want to get quite so close to mentioning his vocation. A reply finally ready, he turned and looked up at her just as she withdrew her hand. Her palm grazed across his cheek. All coherent thought evaporated in that moment. Neither knew what to say or do.

"Peter, help me with these women will ya'? I need another man to back me up" Jack called out, pulling Peter and Assumpta out of their cocoon.

"Sorry, Jack. I was a million miles away. What can I back you up on?"

"These girls don't want to admit it, but women are only attracted to the clergy because they're out of bounds. Am I right?"

Assumpta saw the muscles on the back of his neck tighten. She wanted to lob her glass at Jack's head.

"Jack, aren't you sick of this discussion yet? I know we all are. Sorry Peter," Erin turned to him, "but a few drinks in him and a new face, and he starts trotting out his usual topics. He just does it to rile us."

"Hey! No fair! Just because you're unsure as to whether he'll support you or me, there's no need to cut the discussion off before it's begun. Now, Peter, what do you say?"

"The lure of the forbidden? Well, at some point we all want what we can't have, so your argument has merit." He paused, thinking about what to say next. His fingers started tracing lazy circles over Assumpta's ankle. Her skin pebbled, and a clear picture of having exactly what she couldn't presented itself to her. No longer did she want to maim Jack, she wanted to drag Peter into her bedroom.

"See, he agrees with me!"

"Well, I wouldn't say I agree with you completely. There are other factors at play."

"Such as?" Erin prompted.

"Their status and role in the community. Being part of significant events in people's lives. Their role as peacemaker."

"Their willingness to help those in need." Assumpta added

"Their compassion." Roisin piped in. "Every one of the girls when I was a teenager, myself included, had a crush on our local priest. He couldn't have been more than 35, ruggedly handsome, kind and always organising events for the town. We were forever coming up with petty grievances so we had an excuse to get Father Ryan to mediate. The church was jam packed with our mothers and every single woman in the district on Sundays."

"Oh, c'mon Ro. Richard Chamberlain was it?! You can't expect us to believe that the priest you had a crush on when you were 13 was: a) good looking; and b) under 50. I don't think I've seen a priest under 50 in ages, and I've never seen one who could be considered good looking. I'd be more inclined to believe that Assumpta was having an affair with the local curate than your story. What do you say Peter?"

At that moment, Assumpta wished she had the ability to read Peter's mind. Sitting in front of her was the embodiment of everything that Jack said didn't exist. And while they weren't having an affair, with the thoughts and images that had been swirling around in her head since his earlier accidental confession, they might as well have been.

"I'm not sure I can be of much use to you Jack." Peter said, standing up and collecting dishes into a pile. "I can't help verify or deny Roisin's claims as I've never had a crush on a priest."

Erin and Roisin broke out into fits of giggles while Jack looked slightly put out. Assumpta was relieved. She had the sudden urge to leave the room so picked up the remaining dishes. Wordlessly they left the lounge, and a still amused Erin and Roisin, and a smouldering Jack, and went down to the kitchen.

"Just pop those in the sink. I'll do them in the morning." Assumpta said, unloading her dishes on the bench.

"No, you go back up. I'll let myself out when I've finished."

"Don't be daft. You've more than repaid your debit."

"That's not why I'm offering."

They both knew that this could go on for ages. They were masters at putting all their energy into insignificant arguments. Knowing that he had very little energy, Peter capitulated.

"How bout we both leave them for now, and I come by in the morning and help you clean up." he compromised.

"Deal."

They stood, staring at each other, neither knowing what to talk about after that last conversation.

"Um, thanks for dinner." It wasn't quite what Peter wanted to say, but he didn't know how to thank her for the evening, for letting him be part of it, and for letting him just be Peter. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a night like it, though it was probably during his early years at university, before the seminary, before his vows and long before Ballyk.

"It's you I should be thanking for the dinner."

"Yeah, well I was only following orders."

He wasn't sure if it was the confidence of the remaining wine in his system, the boundaries that had been crossed upstairs, or the memories of how evenings like this used to end, but he allowed himself to reach for her hand. They both watched his hand as it reached out, and as his tentative hold became firm. It wasn't until they looked at each other again that they realised they were now only inches apart.

"I... Ah... I had a good time tonight. Best night I've had in ages."

"Yeah, well, I'm sorry if they were a bit... full on."

"Nothing you haven't already taught me to endure. They're good people, and great company"

"You're great company too Peter."

He didn't know what to say, so decided to take his leave. He couldn't step away. She couldn't let go of his hand. With her free hand, she finally let herself reach up and stroke the soft hair around his temple. It was intoxicating. He put his hand out to steady himself on something and it landed firmly on her hip.

"You look beautiful in this." he whispered. "You always look beautiful."

"Peter..."

It was both a question and a last attempt at stopping what she desperately hoped was happening.

"I haven't done this in a while." he said, inching closer.

"Just like riding a bicycle."

Her breath was mingling with his. He leaned closer, brushing her lips with his, allowing her one last moment to pull back.

"I hope not." He murmured before closing the gap.

The first kiss was soft and tentative, each holding back as the reality of what they were doing seeped into their consciousness. The second was more assured, with light nips, moans and a subtle rearranging of their bodies pushing it towards something more.

The third kiss was intense; a release of pent up emotions and desires. They clambered to pull each other closer, as though they were trying to merge into one form. Assumpta could feel the heat of desire pool in her groin as one of his hands ran up the back of her thigh, taking her skirt up with it, and stopped when it reached her panty line. The heat turned into an inferno when his fingers started toying with the elastic and finally slipped underneath. She was suddenly hyper-aware of the skin on skin, and realised that her own hands had slipped under his clothes, one on his back, and one similarly engaged in slipping under his waistband.

As the kiss finished, they slowly released their hold on each other. They stayed close, their breathing deep, chests rising and falling in time. They put more space between themselves as they straightened their clothes and regained their composure.

"I should..." Assumpta started, but couldn't make her brain form a whole sentence.

"Yeah. And I should..." he backed away, opening the door.

"Right... right." She said turning so he couldn't see the shame and guilt that was creeping across her face, and giving him a chance to slip away.

He was halfway out the door when he stopped.

"Assumpta?"

He reached out, grabbed her hand and pulled, turning her back to him. The suddenness of his actions propelled her straight into his chest. He kissed her again. It was short but full of promise.

"I'll see you in the morning." he said, and shut the door behind him.

Outside, the freezing air did nothing to cool his flushed skin. _'If it's a sin, there'll be no repeating it'_ The words echoed in his head. '_Like hell' _he thought as he wandered home.


	5. Chapter 5

In the immortal words of Damon Albarn, '_And it looks like we might have made it, yes it looks like we've made it to the end_'.

There will be no continuation of this story by me (though others are welcome to do so), as the characters are demanding a change of scene.

Once again, thank you to all who have read, and a very special thanks to all who have reviewed - your words of encouragement and appreciation are incredibly valuable.

Oh, and they're still not mine... yet...

* * *

Sleep was a quite different affair for the occupants of the pub and the cottage up the road. Peter arrived home, his heart soaring, his skin tingling and the tension that had wracked his body for months gone. He fell into a deep and peaceful sleep as his head hit the pillow. Assumpta had returned upstairs to her friends but could not settle. She bowed out of the evening, pleading that she'd hit a wall - it certainly felt like she'd hit something. She went to bed but found sleep elusive: she was wound tighter than a spring, and it wasn't till the wee hours of the morning that she was able to clear her mind.

* * *

The events of the previous night lingered as Assumpta busied about the kitchen preparing breakfast for her friends, whom she assumed were all hungover like herself, and had slept in. She spied the dishes piled in the sink and wondered if he'd keep his promise. She wouldn't blame him if he didn't. She had a sudden urge to get rid of them just in case. Busy washing up, she was oblivious to the arrival of another.

"Assumpta?"

"Hey Ro," Assumpta called over her shoulder. "There's jams and honey for the toast, or I've got cereals if you'd prefer. Bacon and eggs will be ready in a bit. Tea?"

Assumpta left the sink and filled a teapot. Roisin said nothing, just leant against the door jamb. The silence eventually caused Assumpta to stop and look at her friend. She was fully dressed and had obviously been out.

Shit. Sunday Mass.

"He gives a good sermon, even if he is hungover."

"Does he? Can't say I've been up there to listen to him in his element."

"Oh, I'd say he was in his element last night. Funny, I wouldn't have picked him for a man of the cloth."

Assumpta was reminded of that first day she'd met him. His boyish face streaked with rain, his lopsided grin, the optimism radiating from every pore. He'd taken her by surprise too.

"Yeah, well neither did I."

"How long Assumpta?"

"He's been here for almost 2 years."

"How long?" she pressed, not giving Assumpta any room to avoid the real question.

The expression Assumpta saw on Roisin's face was exactly what she'd been hoping to avoid: understanding. No one should be understanding of what she was going through. They should be angry, confused, shocked. Anything but understanding. Assumpta pulled a chair out, sat down heavily, and poured two cups of tea. Roisin followed her lead. This was not a conversation she was wanting to have. Not while the taste of last night still lingered and the guilt had yet to settle anywhere permanent.

"Almost 2 years, but nothing happened till last night."

"Oh… Wow… Well that explains his sermon this morning."

"Sin and temptation was it?"

"Divine gift of love actually."

The nausea that Assumpta had attributed to her hangover disappeared. She was suddenly sure he'd come by, and a frisson of excitement passed over her. Roisin was eyeing her over the rim of her mug.

"What?"

"Oh, just wondering how long it'll be before I can gloat; there's nothing more enjoyable than seeing Jack eat his words." She took a long sip of her tea before adding, "It's a shame in some ways, that he has to give it up and all. He's very good looking in that get up of his."

Assumpta cracked a smile. As if on cue, the man himself burst into the kitchen.

"Assumpta, I saw Roisin at Mass. I'm so sor..." he saw Roisin and stopped. What little colour was in his face drained away.

"Mornin' Father. Interesting sermon this morning. I was just telling Assumpta about it, but I reckon you can do a better job of it than me."

Peter looked at the two women. Roisin had pinned him with her gaze again.

"Ah, thanks. Look. Sorry about, y'know… I didn't mean too… Actually, I did, but not because…"

"Let me stop you there Peter. Whatever you have to say, save it. I'm not the one you came here to talk to. So," she said good-naturedly, "I'll leave you two to it."

Roisin shut the kitchen door firmly behind her. They were alone and weren't about to be disturbed. Assumpta felt the need to do something.

"There's breakfast if you want some." She offered, getting up and putting Roisin's mug in the sink.

"You cleaned up." Peter observed, a hint of disappointment in his voice.

What did he have to be disappointed about, she wondered.

"Yeah, well, I wasn't sure you'd remember. We all say and do things we wouldn't normally when we're drunk."

"I wasn't drunk."

His reply took her by surprise. Assumpta had been hoping that if he were going to come up with an excuse for last night, it'd be one they could at least share. Perhaps…

"Confused?" she offered.

"Not confused."

"Guilty?"

"Not guilty either."

"Rebelious?"

"Hardly." He scoffed.

"Peter, I'm trying to give you an out here." she pleaded.

"Nope, don't want an out. Not from last night at least."

Assumpta let the words and their meaning sink in. He wasn't drunk. He wasn't feeling guilty or confused. He didn't want to gloss over last night. Peter was standing in her kitchen, a goofy grin on his face, loosening his collar.

"What are you doing?"

"Oh, I think you know." he said, pocketing the offending white plastic, and moving towards her.

Assumpta was rooted to the spot, anticipation and exhilaration overriding every last urge to run. Words were all she had left to fend him off.

"You shouldn't do this."

"Why?"

As he had the previous night, he reached out and took her hand in his.

"It's Sunday?"

"And?" he said, pulling her closer.

"I've not cleaned my teeth?"

"Don't care."

He let go of her hand and put his arms around her waist.

"Someone could come in?"

"Fine by me."

"I'm not dressed for this?"

Peter leaned to the side and whispered in her ear, "I'd like you a lot less dressed for this."

He let his lips graze down her jaw and neck, before settling them near her collarbone. He could feel her pulse quicken as he began to kiss her. He let his hands push her t-shirt up so that they could rest on the spot on her hips where her jeans ended and skin started. Assumpta's hands were busily engaged in holding him to her. He nuzzled the loose collar of her shirt down. Skin that she'd never considered sensitive suddenly seemed to connect to every nerve in her body.

"Oh Peter" she whispered, her nails dragging across his back.

The softness was replaced with the force of a man marking his territory. It wasn't enough for him to have her in his arms, her skin under his lips; he wanted a physical representation of the mark she had left on his soul. It wasn't enough. He pulled away to look at her.

"Assumpta, I…"

She kissed him before he could finish. She kissed him because she wanted him to know that whatever he was feeling, she felt too. He tasted of toothpaste and smelt of incense. It was so simple, so familiar, so quintessentially Peter, that she knew she would never tire of it.

Heavy footsteps on the stairs broke them apart. They stood next to each other, resting against the bench. Assumpta reached behind him and slipped a hand in his back pocket. He wondered what she was doing until it slipped out again, and she handed him the white plastic.

Jack stumbled in, ignoring the two standing by the sink watching him. Those who knew them well would've notice how their sides were pressed up together and their complexions flushed. Jack was too involved in feeling sorry for himself to notice anything. He sat in a chair, dropped his head on the table and groaned. Assumpta took pity on him, poured him a cup of tea and sat it down in front of him, collecting her own as she returned to Peter's side.

"Ta 'Sumpta. I feel like a badger crawled into my mouth and died. Cheers." He said, finally looking up and taking in the scene in front of him, squinting at Peter as he registered what he was wearing. "Oh, very funny. I knew you were a joker, but that's an impressive effort. Where did you get the outfit? Did the girls put you up to this?"

"Not exactly."

"Peter is the local curate." Assumpta explained.

"Was" Peter mumbled so only she could hear.

She looked at him, unsure she'd heard him correctly. He nodded ever so slightly and moved his hand so it covered hers, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

"Oh har har. Assumpta, you know it's not fair to tease me when I'm hungover." Jack whined.

There was a soft knock at the door followed by Niamh slipping in.

"Father Clifford, I thought I might find you here. Father Mac is storming up to your place as I speak. I heard him mutter something about 'insufferable English priests'. Thought I'd better warn you in case he came barging in here."

"Thanks Niamh."

"Probably heard about your sermon this morning from Kathleen. Just so you know, I enjoyed it. You can do more like that any day. Ambrose has never been so affectionate on a Sunday mornin' after mass." Niamh smiled to herself at the memory. "Speaking of which, I'd better get back."

Niamh left the three in the kitchen. Jack was staring, jaw hanging open, unable to form a word. Peter was fidgeting with the cuffs of his sleeves. Assumpta was sipping her tea, trying hard not to break out into a full blown smile.

"UGH!" Jack finally broke the silence. "Those two up there are NEVER going to let me live this one down. I'm going back to bed."

Assumpta could contain herself no longer. The tumult of emotions that she'd been keeping at bay since she woke up finally broke free. She turned towards Peter and buried her head in his shoulder, her body shaking. Peter held her close and stroked her back, surprised to hear that what he'd thought were sniffles were actually giggles. She calmed down quickly and finally looked up at him.

"I guess you'd better be getting home."

"Time to face the music. The sooner I get up there, the sooner I can come back here. Be sure to keep some breakfast for me. I'm famished!"

"You think he's going to let you go that quickly?" she asked, wondering if Peter was just trying to make her feel better or if he was delusional.

"There's not much to say really. He'll want to know what the emergency was, and I'll tell him that I wanted him to be the second to know that I'm leaving the priesthood, and that I love Assumpta Fitzgerald."

"The second?"

"Well, I thought I'd better tell you first. Assumpta, I love you."

She blushed then, and buried her head back in his shoulder.

"I love you too Peter Clifford." he heard her mumble against him.

**...THE END...**

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